


One More Time, Again.

by 9_of_Clubs



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: But a good man, Coda, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, HURT COMFORT FOR US, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Steve is not a perfect soldier, and this is how it goes, this is a fix-it fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 18:10:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18609814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_of_Clubs/pseuds/9_of_Clubs
Summary: The machine whirs to life, and Steve is there, again, there, one more time, again, there, and his eyes are clear, and blue, Bucky’s first memory of this world, blue, and he’s sad, but smiling, and he’s real, and he’s Bucky’s, and there’s time.--Yes, this is a fix-it fic for the last scene in the movie. We deserve that.





	One More Time, Again.

He holds his breath as the air stills for a minute, silence between them as in one breath Steve is there and in the other there are only dust motes and the softness of a breeze. A flicker of seconds the only thing marking the difference between existent and gone. 

_ It’ll only take a second _ . 

Time that stretches and twists and spins in between the beats of his heart. 

_ One last thing I gotta do, Buck.  _

One last thing. 

He tries to hope it’s true. He knows, probably, it won’t be, not forever, not with Steve, but at least for now, maybe. At least, for a breath. He thinks they’ve earned that, a little measure of peace. 

It won’t be. 

It won’t be before. 

It won’t be the same. 

Steve is different, he’s broken, a different kind of broken, in a thousand new ways, in ways Bucky might not ever be able to fill or fix completely, in the echoes of a frozen battle, and a wound that will ache in Steve forever, and for Bucky will only ever have forced shut at the surface, more the hiss of hot metal on torn skin to stop the bleeding, than any kind of healing at all. The point is, there are always fresh hells, and Steve is in one, and Bucky, Bucky is no spring chicken himself-- but time, maybe. 

Maybe they can have time now. The sands of the hourglass always somehow seeping out between their fingers, lost to shield, and snow, and sea, and pain, and mistakes, and dust, and now - reset, always starting again for them, somehow. Against all odds. Against everything. The world moving for Steve in the way only he is able to make it. 

Maybe that will be enough.

It won’t be the same. The same as before, all the way back, or before the after, it won’t be any of the lives they’ve lived to get to here.

But it never has to be. It never has to be that. It’s enough that it’s them. 

He tries to pay attention, tries to make the breaths come steady, not to let the ever press of anxiousness cloud his vision, not to let the black come, not to find the ground. He tries not to think that he hates watching Steve disappear, to know they control disintegration now. Tries not to fear… other things.

_ One last thing I gotta do, Buck.  _

And then, all at once, as promised-- 

_ I can get by on my own. _

_ Thing is you don’t have to.  _

\--The machine whirs to life, and Steve is there, again, there, one more time, again, there, and his eyes are clear, and blue, Bucky’s first memory of this world, blue, and he’s sad, but smiling, and he’s real, and he’s Bucky’s, and there’s time. There’s going to be time. He moves forward without waiting, without caring that Sam’s eyes are on them, full of annoyed amusement and irritation, almost fond. Maybe for the first time, he forgets to care about anything. 

His fingers close around Steve’s wrist, and he’s yanked him off the pedestal bringing him down to the grass, bringing them close, stupid looking white suit or not, there’s skin underneath, somewhere, soft and warm and Steve, and it’s Bucky’s. Steve is Bucky’s.  

Steve laughs, a low sound, rusty from disuse, but Steve is always ready to rise again, to try again. A new kind of mission. He smiles back and their lips are meeting, the sun drenched glow of Steve surrounding him, suffusing into him, soft inside of him, in the space between every one of his cells. 

Flickering embers of hope burst, leap, soar, they start again. It doesn’t matter, being beat and bent and broken. They start again. 

_ Welcome home.  _


End file.
